Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and feel like I've been awakened for a reason. The wee hours of the Monday morning after Mother's Day were such an occasion. It was about 3 in the morning, and I heard a little voice (inside my head) say, "Quit."
"Like tomorrow?!?!" I asked, more than a tad bewildered.
"You can wait until after Tuesday, if you want," the voice nonchalantly responded.
Now I'd been working at Starbucks for about 10 months at that point, been promoted to shift supervisor, loved my coworkers and my customers, but a new manager had made working in the store more difficult. The next two days at work were frustrating as we transitioned to the summer beverages and had to deal with a lot of corporate mumbo jumbo. By the end of Tuesday, I realized that I really don't care about the Mint Mocha Chip Frappucino, and I need to do something I care about, so I gave my notice. June 8th was my last day.
For the past month, I've been enjoying semi-retirement. I've been doing a lot of reflection, a lot of walking and reading, spending a lot of time with friends, babysitting for some friends getting really attached to a new infant.
I had an idea to take a road trip around the country visiting all my facebook and myspace friends in person and writing a book and making a documentary about human connection in this generation. I got books on media and on the power of human touch. I looked into getting a vehicle donated to me. I charted the course back and forth through over 40 states. When the total number of miles for the rough draft route came to 15,000, I began to question whether I really wanted to do this. During a week of diligent soul-searching on my own and with friends, I came to the conclusion that sticking in LA, pressing into friends here, continuing to develop community around me, doing things that make me come alive, and finding a job that would be meaningful might be a better solution, at least for now. Continue to let my heart heal and establish healthy life rhythms in my life.
So goodbye Mint Mocha Chip Frappucino. I have not missed you. Though I have missed the phenomenal people of West Hollywood. And a paycheck. I guess I miss that too.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Mother's Day
I was dreading the arrival of Mother's Day, primarily because I didn't know how it would affect me. I had a few invitations to spend the day with people, and felt like I could capitalize on them, should I need to, but I really didn't feel like it. Not in a mopey, self-pitying kind of way, but gradually throughout my 20's, I have become increasingly comfortable with my own company. For an extroverted person who has often distracted herself by the entertainment of having others around, this is a milestone, especially on Mother's Day 7 months after losing her mom.
A friend had suggested visiting Huntington Gardens--a combination art museum (with Gainsborough's "Blue Boy"), library (with an early edition Gutenberg Bible), and acres of beautiful gardens. My mom loved gardens and gardening, and so I thought that would be a beautiful way to honor her in her absence.
But first, I slept in really, really late. Perhaps I was being avoidant, but on the other hand, it's a glorious thing to let yourself fall in and out of sleep over and over again on a weekend morning...an indulgence I rarely engage, especially when my body is busy adjusting to working at 5 am or 11:30 pm to provide coffee for the masses.
On the way to the gardens, I connected with a couple of my mother figures--my best friend's mom, one of my mom's best friends--and my friends who are moms. Conversations filled with more laughter than reflection.
I arrived at the gardens and it was packed. I guess a lot of moms like gardens. I got a map and wandered around, but really I was craving a quiet place to sit. Every bench in every nook and cranny was taken, so I kept wandering. Typically, I can keep moving for quite some time and never really settle in my spirit (this, unlike sleeping in, is definitely avoidant), which leaves me feeling more agitated than before. I crossed a large field surrounded by palm trees, and considered plopping down in the middle of it to stare at the sky, but knew that I would quickly be distracted. I looked up and saw one of my beloved purple-carpet trees (see May 8 entry) and bee-lined it for the trunk. I was ready to get friendly with the dirt and trampled leaves beneath the tree when I saw a giant bumblebee perusing the area. Better not.
But just off to the left was an unoccupied, secluded bench up against the gnarled trunk of a very friendly-looking tree, and I knew I'd found my spot. It wasn't near any paths. It wasn't occupied. The perfect secluded spot I'd been seeking. So I settled in for a little bit. Pretty soon, I heard a low buzzing sound, like a slow-running motor, or more accurately, someone farting for a long time. It was strange. Until I realized the sound was the rapid beating of a hummingbird's wings. The hummingbird flitted to and fro. And then my eye caught a curious squirrel in a semi-distant tree devouring a nut. The breeze blew against my skin carrying the scent of jasmine blossoms. Sun peaked through branches. Birds chirped and children laughed. I leaned my head back against the big friendly tree and watched tiny insects excavate the peeling bark. It was truly exquisite. And I shed some tears, partly because it was so beautiful, partly because I couldn't share it with mom. I didn't realize how hard it would be to see other people with their moms. Most touching was a son with his mom who had the very obvious post-chemo crew cut. I so desperately wanted to run up and talk to them. I was compelled to pray for them, so I did, but from a distance. I journaled. I let my eyes and mind wander from one moment to the next. I don't know how much time passed, but eventually my capacity to be still became stir crazy. So I walked around a bit more. Part of me was dreading leaving, knowing that there would be a ripping of sorts--like when you separate velcro--that I'd be leaving something of the experience of celebrating mom in that place behind.
I came home and took the time to make myself a really nice dinner. I enjoy the process of cooking and creating something aesthetically palate pleasing, but rarely do I make such effort for just myself, so that was a nice treat. Then I went to see some friends. All in all, it was a good day, even glorious at certain moments. It was full in a way that assuaged the emptiness that could have easily taken over. It was a day of remembrance and a day of honor, with some reflection and tears, but mostly joy and enjoyment. A celebration of life in every sense of the word--life that springs forth from dry, crusty ground into blooms and life that propels hummingbird wings at enormous speeds to remain stationary in thin air. A life where you can put one foot in front of the other, even when it hurts, and still relish in the beauty and the pain, sitting side by side on a park bench against a friendly tree in Huntington Gardens.
A friend had suggested visiting Huntington Gardens--a combination art museum (with Gainsborough's "Blue Boy"), library (with an early edition Gutenberg Bible), and acres of beautiful gardens. My mom loved gardens and gardening, and so I thought that would be a beautiful way to honor her in her absence.
But first, I slept in really, really late. Perhaps I was being avoidant, but on the other hand, it's a glorious thing to let yourself fall in and out of sleep over and over again on a weekend morning...an indulgence I rarely engage, especially when my body is busy adjusting to working at 5 am or 11:30 pm to provide coffee for the masses.
On the way to the gardens, I connected with a couple of my mother figures--my best friend's mom, one of my mom's best friends--and my friends who are moms. Conversations filled with more laughter than reflection.
I arrived at the gardens and it was packed. I guess a lot of moms like gardens. I got a map and wandered around, but really I was craving a quiet place to sit. Every bench in every nook and cranny was taken, so I kept wandering. Typically, I can keep moving for quite some time and never really settle in my spirit (this, unlike sleeping in, is definitely avoidant), which leaves me feeling more agitated than before. I crossed a large field surrounded by palm trees, and considered plopping down in the middle of it to stare at the sky, but knew that I would quickly be distracted. I looked up and saw one of my beloved purple-carpet trees (see May 8 entry) and bee-lined it for the trunk. I was ready to get friendly with the dirt and trampled leaves beneath the tree when I saw a giant bumblebee perusing the area. Better not.
But just off to the left was an unoccupied, secluded bench up against the gnarled trunk of a very friendly-looking tree, and I knew I'd found my spot. It wasn't near any paths. It wasn't occupied. The perfect secluded spot I'd been seeking. So I settled in for a little bit. Pretty soon, I heard a low buzzing sound, like a slow-running motor, or more accurately, someone farting for a long time. It was strange. Until I realized the sound was the rapid beating of a hummingbird's wings. The hummingbird flitted to and fro. And then my eye caught a curious squirrel in a semi-distant tree devouring a nut. The breeze blew against my skin carrying the scent of jasmine blossoms. Sun peaked through branches. Birds chirped and children laughed. I leaned my head back against the big friendly tree and watched tiny insects excavate the peeling bark. It was truly exquisite. And I shed some tears, partly because it was so beautiful, partly because I couldn't share it with mom. I didn't realize how hard it would be to see other people with their moms. Most touching was a son with his mom who had the very obvious post-chemo crew cut. I so desperately wanted to run up and talk to them. I was compelled to pray for them, so I did, but from a distance. I journaled. I let my eyes and mind wander from one moment to the next. I don't know how much time passed, but eventually my capacity to be still became stir crazy. So I walked around a bit more. Part of me was dreading leaving, knowing that there would be a ripping of sorts--like when you separate velcro--that I'd be leaving something of the experience of celebrating mom in that place behind.
I came home and took the time to make myself a really nice dinner. I enjoy the process of cooking and creating something aesthetically palate pleasing, but rarely do I make such effort for just myself, so that was a nice treat. Then I went to see some friends. All in all, it was a good day, even glorious at certain moments. It was full in a way that assuaged the emptiness that could have easily taken over. It was a day of remembrance and a day of honor, with some reflection and tears, but mostly joy and enjoyment. A celebration of life in every sense of the word--life that springs forth from dry, crusty ground into blooms and life that propels hummingbird wings at enormous speeds to remain stationary in thin air. A life where you can put one foot in front of the other, even when it hurts, and still relish in the beauty and the pain, sitting side by side on a park bench against a friendly tree in Huntington Gardens.
Friday, June 27, 2008
It's been awhile....
I've decided (yet again) to return to blogging. We'll see for how long this time, but I hope to make it regular and lasting. Perhaps it's some of the extra time I have on my hands, since I've quit my job. Retirement before the age of 30 isn't a bad deal. Paying rent with no income--a little more difficult.
And of course, with everything with me, there's a story behind the job-quitting. So some upcoming stories to look forward to: Mother's Day and the week thereafter. The quitting story. Trip to Michigan to see family. What's in store. I will finally publish what I said at my mom's memorial service, best as I can remember. And any other daily insights that may emerge.
So to my faithful reader or two or three, stay tuned.....
And of course, with everything with me, there's a story behind the job-quitting. So some upcoming stories to look forward to: Mother's Day and the week thereafter. The quitting story. Trip to Michigan to see family. What's in store. I will finally publish what I said at my mom's memorial service, best as I can remember. And any other daily insights that may emerge.
So to my faithful reader or two or three, stay tuned.....
Thursday, May 8, 2008
This week
It's been cool, cozy, and cloudy in LA this week. So much so that when I left the apartment this morning, I actually recognized that the sun was shining. Sadly, the continuous sunshine can get a bit old, and it's nice to have the variety. And because of that statement, I now have no friends east of Denver. And we wonder why Angelenos are so self-centered. We are spoiled in every possible sense, even in the weather.
Another delight of this week is the return of what I call the "purple carpet trees." I don't know their actual name, and even if I did, I would prefer my own title. The purple carpet trees have these beautiful periwinkle purple little blooms and when they are done blooming, they drop onto the ground right below the tree such that the ground looks like it's covered in purple carpet. My roommate has a photograph of the blooms on asphalt which I simply must enlarge and put on a wall. I love the trees that much. It's a remnant of spring in this endless summer place, so I hold onto it. And in a city which survives on asphalt the way that we survive on blood in our veins, it's nice to see a simple, beautiful piece of nature, and purple at that, covering up the gray. Maybe I'm attracted to the seeming defiance of the purple carpet trees--in spite of traffic on endless mazes of streets, in spite of endless summer, in spite of our inability to slow down, we will bring temporary beauty to cover over the junk that lands in the gutter and take your breath away, even if for only a moment. And in that, I am reminded that in spring, life is new, and that beauty can be temporary, so squeeze it until it is bone dry.
This past Sunday was also Big Sunday, which is a city-wide volunteer day, which I was on the steering committee for last year. Last year there were over 300 projects and 50,000 volunteers. This year, I wasn't able to participate as fully, and wasn't sure how I wanted to participate at all. I ended up helping my steering committee friends from last year on the events that they helped plan. So I assisted with a "BasketballFest" (right next to "SoccerFest") and got to see BJ Armstrong, former Chicago Bull, up close.
I've also realized this week that Mother's Day is looming in a few days. I see the flowers and cards and balloons and advertisements everywhere. I know it's coming. But I'm not really preparing, if that could even really be done. I figure it will be a hard day and that I'll plan to be with friends and I'll deal with stuff as it comes up.
My dad goes on a Mediterranean cruise tomorrow. I'm so proud of him, of who he's become in the wake of all this. He was saying it's been a year exactly since their last big trip--they came out for my grad school graduation, which coincided with Mother's Day, and they went on a Mexican riviera cruise. So the preparations (which mom would typically take care of) have been difficult. But he's going. He's seeing Rome and Istanbul and Athens. And I'm jealous. Ha! Some day.
I've realized I am in a great mood and have a great day when I brainstorm and day dream about nice things to do for other people, which is what I think I'm going to do tonight. Yay!
Another delight of this week is the return of what I call the "purple carpet trees." I don't know their actual name, and even if I did, I would prefer my own title. The purple carpet trees have these beautiful periwinkle purple little blooms and when they are done blooming, they drop onto the ground right below the tree such that the ground looks like it's covered in purple carpet. My roommate has a photograph of the blooms on asphalt which I simply must enlarge and put on a wall. I love the trees that much. It's a remnant of spring in this endless summer place, so I hold onto it. And in a city which survives on asphalt the way that we survive on blood in our veins, it's nice to see a simple, beautiful piece of nature, and purple at that, covering up the gray. Maybe I'm attracted to the seeming defiance of the purple carpet trees--in spite of traffic on endless mazes of streets, in spite of endless summer, in spite of our inability to slow down, we will bring temporary beauty to cover over the junk that lands in the gutter and take your breath away, even if for only a moment. And in that, I am reminded that in spring, life is new, and that beauty can be temporary, so squeeze it until it is bone dry.
This past Sunday was also Big Sunday, which is a city-wide volunteer day, which I was on the steering committee for last year. Last year there were over 300 projects and 50,000 volunteers. This year, I wasn't able to participate as fully, and wasn't sure how I wanted to participate at all. I ended up helping my steering committee friends from last year on the events that they helped plan. So I assisted with a "BasketballFest" (right next to "SoccerFest") and got to see BJ Armstrong, former Chicago Bull, up close.
I've also realized this week that Mother's Day is looming in a few days. I see the flowers and cards and balloons and advertisements everywhere. I know it's coming. But I'm not really preparing, if that could even really be done. I figure it will be a hard day and that I'll plan to be with friends and I'll deal with stuff as it comes up.
My dad goes on a Mediterranean cruise tomorrow. I'm so proud of him, of who he's become in the wake of all this. He was saying it's been a year exactly since their last big trip--they came out for my grad school graduation, which coincided with Mother's Day, and they went on a Mexican riviera cruise. So the preparations (which mom would typically take care of) have been difficult. But he's going. He's seeing Rome and Istanbul and Athens. And I'm jealous. Ha! Some day.
I've realized I am in a great mood and have a great day when I brainstorm and day dream about nice things to do for other people, which is what I think I'm going to do tonight. Yay!
Saturday, May 3, 2008
S & G
I closed at Starbucks tonight and had some delightful conversations. It was slow, so it was OK to take the time to meander through cleaning tasks and have conversations, one with a woman from Kansas City who's a writer working on a feature-length cartoon script, and another with a pair of guys from Italy on holiday. And all the while, the soundtrack tonight was good--somehow the usual lineup got out of sync and the playlist tripped into new territory--mellow, easygoing, melodic territory which made working even more enjoyable tonight.
And, as is typical in the music rotation at Starbucks these days, a little Simon and Garfunkel played over the speakers. I noticed that whenever the excerpts from the new live album released under Starbucks' Hear Music label would play, I would have a better shift. So one day about a month ago when I knew I would be driving a lot to and from Orange County, I bought the CD on a whim. I love Simon and Garfunkel. We had the Bridge Over Troubled Water tape growing up, and then a friend got me their Greatest Hits CD for my 16th birthday. When my mom told me she'd seen them live in the 60's, her cool points went way, way up.
So as I listened to the music that day with the windows down, Mrs. Robinson, Scarborough Fair, 59th Street Song (aka Feelin' Groovy) and on and on, I was so happy. The songs were connected to so many memories--the way my roommate at a summer academy my sophomore year in high school would sing the "whoa whoa whoa" in Mrs. Robinson or the moves of my gymnastics recital piece set to Feelin' Groovy. All the songs on the album are live from 1969, right before they released the Bridge Over Troubled Water album. You can hear Garfunkel say right before the sing that song, "This is one of our new songs. It's called 'Bridge Over Troubled Water.'" Can you imagine when that song was new? Hearing it for the first time? Hearing it live? Do you think people knew then how epic it would be? Did they know they were listening to a piece of music history? And so I blasted that song that day as loud as my little Ford Focus speakers would go.
And pretty soon, I could hear my mom's voice singing next to me. We had sung that song and so many other Simon and Garfunkel tunes together, riding in the car, on a road trip or on our way around town. And I lost it. Going 80 mph. At least I've become accustomed to operating a vehicle in this state--at high speeds through tears--so it isn't terribly abnormal. The lyrics were so fitting as well, as if my mom would be singing them to me, especially the bridge:
Sail on, silver girl
Sail on by
Your time has come to shine
All your dreams are on their way
And I thought back to talking to my mom after I'd gotten home, the day before she died. I'd asked if she'd like me to sing to her. She said, "You could sing 'Happy Birthday.'" (My birthday was the following week).
"You're right, Mom, I could."
"Well, we have to get this taken care of before then," she said in a moment of strange clarity amidst confusion. Whether it was painkillers or cancer spreading to her brain, she was in an altered state those last days. But in this moment she was strangely aware and lucid. She was wanting to not detract from my birthday, in a way literally laying her life down in death as she had done so often during her life. Doing what she thought was right for the benefit of others. She was gone in less than 24 hours.
It all makes the lyrics that much more fitting. As though mom were singing them just to me:
When you're weary, feeling small,
When tears are in your eyes
I will dry them all.
I'm on your side.
When times get rough
And friends just can't be found
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down.
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down.
When you're down and out,
When you're on the street,
When evening falls so hard,
I will comfort you.
I'll take your part.
When darkness comes
And pain is all around
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down.
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down.
Sail on silver girl.
Sail on by.
Your time has come to shine.
All your dreams are on their way.
See how they shine.
Oh if you need a friend,
I'm sailing right behind.
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will ease your mind.
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will ease your mind.
Some days it still doesn't seem real. That I could call her up. Being so far away from home makes the reality of it less tangible. And oh how I wish she were here to dry my tears. How I wish she were here to see me shine and to see my dreams on their way. And so I will continue to blast Simon and Garfunkel and I will continue to think of her--to remember the person she was and the person she hoped I would be. How it hurts my heart that I will never hear her voice again, to sing, to call me Annie.
My dad leaves on a Mediterranean cruise next Saturday. He and mom traveled a LOT these past several years--to Antarctica and the Arctic Circle, Russia, Germany. And this Mediterranean cruise was the last one they wanted to do, but they didn't quite make it. Dad said he still wanted to go, though, so he will be traveling with Sue and Melvin--my folks' 10-year traveling companions. He has surprised me in so many ways, with the ways he has stepped up. He even baked a carrot cake from scratch for a meeting he was hosting the other day. Who is this culinary man? Maybe for each of us through all of this we will become people we didn't even know we could be.
And, as is typical in the music rotation at Starbucks these days, a little Simon and Garfunkel played over the speakers. I noticed that whenever the excerpts from the new live album released under Starbucks' Hear Music label would play, I would have a better shift. So one day about a month ago when I knew I would be driving a lot to and from Orange County, I bought the CD on a whim. I love Simon and Garfunkel. We had the Bridge Over Troubled Water tape growing up, and then a friend got me their Greatest Hits CD for my 16th birthday. When my mom told me she'd seen them live in the 60's, her cool points went way, way up.
So as I listened to the music that day with the windows down, Mrs. Robinson, Scarborough Fair, 59th Street Song (aka Feelin' Groovy) and on and on, I was so happy. The songs were connected to so many memories--the way my roommate at a summer academy my sophomore year in high school would sing the "whoa whoa whoa" in Mrs. Robinson or the moves of my gymnastics recital piece set to Feelin' Groovy. All the songs on the album are live from 1969, right before they released the Bridge Over Troubled Water album. You can hear Garfunkel say right before the sing that song, "This is one of our new songs. It's called 'Bridge Over Troubled Water.'" Can you imagine when that song was new? Hearing it for the first time? Hearing it live? Do you think people knew then how epic it would be? Did they know they were listening to a piece of music history? And so I blasted that song that day as loud as my little Ford Focus speakers would go.
And pretty soon, I could hear my mom's voice singing next to me. We had sung that song and so many other Simon and Garfunkel tunes together, riding in the car, on a road trip or on our way around town. And I lost it. Going 80 mph. At least I've become accustomed to operating a vehicle in this state--at high speeds through tears--so it isn't terribly abnormal. The lyrics were so fitting as well, as if my mom would be singing them to me, especially the bridge:
Sail on, silver girl
Sail on by
Your time has come to shine
All your dreams are on their way
And I thought back to talking to my mom after I'd gotten home, the day before she died. I'd asked if she'd like me to sing to her. She said, "You could sing 'Happy Birthday.'" (My birthday was the following week).
"You're right, Mom, I could."
"Well, we have to get this taken care of before then," she said in a moment of strange clarity amidst confusion. Whether it was painkillers or cancer spreading to her brain, she was in an altered state those last days. But in this moment she was strangely aware and lucid. She was wanting to not detract from my birthday, in a way literally laying her life down in death as she had done so often during her life. Doing what she thought was right for the benefit of others. She was gone in less than 24 hours.
It all makes the lyrics that much more fitting. As though mom were singing them just to me:
When you're weary, feeling small,
When tears are in your eyes
I will dry them all.
I'm on your side.
When times get rough
And friends just can't be found
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down.
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down.
When you're down and out,
When you're on the street,
When evening falls so hard,
I will comfort you.
I'll take your part.
When darkness comes
And pain is all around
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down.
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down.
Sail on silver girl.
Sail on by.
Your time has come to shine.
All your dreams are on their way.
See how they shine.
Oh if you need a friend,
I'm sailing right behind.
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will ease your mind.
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will ease your mind.
Some days it still doesn't seem real. That I could call her up. Being so far away from home makes the reality of it less tangible. And oh how I wish she were here to dry my tears. How I wish she were here to see me shine and to see my dreams on their way. And so I will continue to blast Simon and Garfunkel and I will continue to think of her--to remember the person she was and the person she hoped I would be. How it hurts my heart that I will never hear her voice again, to sing, to call me Annie.
My dad leaves on a Mediterranean cruise next Saturday. He and mom traveled a LOT these past several years--to Antarctica and the Arctic Circle, Russia, Germany. And this Mediterranean cruise was the last one they wanted to do, but they didn't quite make it. Dad said he still wanted to go, though, so he will be traveling with Sue and Melvin--my folks' 10-year traveling companions. He has surprised me in so many ways, with the ways he has stepped up. He even baked a carrot cake from scratch for a meeting he was hosting the other day. Who is this culinary man? Maybe for each of us through all of this we will become people we didn't even know we could be.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
6 months
I've been thinking about blogging for awhile and have had many blog-worthy moments, but have yet to touch the keys toward this end. Until today. Today marks 6 months since mom has died, and in about a week, I will be closer to 30 than I am to 29, as if I needed more reason to freak out and break down.
I've certainly had my moments. Two days ago I had an afternoon when I thought I would burst into tears at any moment, but I didn't. I've recently purchased a Simon and Garfunkel album that constantly reminds me of mom (more on that later). And yet, there have been moments of beauty, reconnecting with an old friend over an Angels baseball game and laughing the entire time, literally. Sometimes I take myself far too seriously, and it was good not to for an evening. The first weekend in April, I helped to plan and execute a conference to help young adults deal with their issues. Ironically, I taught a workshop on how to not become completely self-absorbed while you go through hard stuff.
So this week, I heard a friend say, "Work hard at what comes easy." Writing comes easily for me, as does expressing my emotions and expounding on ideas, so I've decided (at least until this little kick ends) to return to blogging.
I've been reminded of a book I read last year called, "Lament for a Son," written by a professor of theological philosophy or philosophical theology at Yale Divinity School. Given to me by a friend, it expressed in words some of the very things I was feeling. I bought a bunch of copies, and I don't even have one currently, because I've given them all away. It's just that universal and just that good. The author, Nicholas Wolterstorff, composes these one- or two-page vignettes that serve as reflections on different aspects of grieving the death of his 25-year-old son.
From page 13:
We took him too much for granted. Perhaps we all take each other too much for granted. The routines of life distract us; our own pursuits make us oblivious; our anxieties and sorrows unmindful. The beauties of the familiar go unremarked. We do not treasure each other enough.
He was a gift to us for 25 years. When the gift was finally snatched away, I realized how great it was. Then I could not tell him. An outpouring of letters arrived, many expressing appreciation for Eric. They all made me weep again: each word of praise a stab of loss.
How can I be thankful, in his gone-ness, for what he was? I find I am. But the pain of the no more outweighs the gratitude of the once was. Will it always be so?
I didn't know how much I loved him until he was gone.
Is love like that?
I've certainly had my moments. Two days ago I had an afternoon when I thought I would burst into tears at any moment, but I didn't. I've recently purchased a Simon and Garfunkel album that constantly reminds me of mom (more on that later). And yet, there have been moments of beauty, reconnecting with an old friend over an Angels baseball game and laughing the entire time, literally. Sometimes I take myself far too seriously, and it was good not to for an evening. The first weekend in April, I helped to plan and execute a conference to help young adults deal with their issues. Ironically, I taught a workshop on how to not become completely self-absorbed while you go through hard stuff.
So this week, I heard a friend say, "Work hard at what comes easy." Writing comes easily for me, as does expressing my emotions and expounding on ideas, so I've decided (at least until this little kick ends) to return to blogging.
I've been reminded of a book I read last year called, "Lament for a Son," written by a professor of theological philosophy or philosophical theology at Yale Divinity School. Given to me by a friend, it expressed in words some of the very things I was feeling. I bought a bunch of copies, and I don't even have one currently, because I've given them all away. It's just that universal and just that good. The author, Nicholas Wolterstorff, composes these one- or two-page vignettes that serve as reflections on different aspects of grieving the death of his 25-year-old son.
From page 13:
We took him too much for granted. Perhaps we all take each other too much for granted. The routines of life distract us; our own pursuits make us oblivious; our anxieties and sorrows unmindful. The beauties of the familiar go unremarked. We do not treasure each other enough.
He was a gift to us for 25 years. When the gift was finally snatched away, I realized how great it was. Then I could not tell him. An outpouring of letters arrived, many expressing appreciation for Eric. They all made me weep again: each word of praise a stab of loss.
How can I be thankful, in his gone-ness, for what he was? I find I am. But the pain of the no more outweighs the gratitude of the once was. Will it always be so?
I didn't know how much I loved him until he was gone.
Is love like that?
Thursday, January 17, 2008
I'm getting back in the swing of things--still not unpacked, but working most days. I'm filling a fair amount of my spare time with a beautiful entertainment industry invention known as screeners--award-nominated recent films sent to members of different trade unions. I've been watching a lot of movies.
And, this afternoon, I was asked to speak at the Friday morning chapel of Pepperdine University, so no movies tonight. I have a talk to prepare.
And, this afternoon, I was asked to speak at the Friday morning chapel of Pepperdine University, so no movies tonight. I have a talk to prepare.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Unpacking
So I'm still unloading my car and putting things away--perhaps implying that I've been doing it nonstop since my arrival in Los Angeles, but to the contrary. It takes far less time than it feels like it's going to, but I often find other things to do, perhaps avoiding the prospect of getting settled into this new motherless LA life.
As I'm emptying my laundry basket this morning, which I used like a suitcase, I come across a poncho that my mom crocheted for me. The poncho craze was always a little puzzling to me, since my mom wore a poncho when she brought my brother and me home from the hospital in a blanket made from matching yellow yarn. Am I really old enough that a fad that was popular at the time of my birth has been retro-ized? When the poncho came back, my mom offered to make me one, and so I picked out a yarn and she made it. I didn't really like it that much, because the pattern she used had this weird collar on it that looked, to put it nicely, dorky.
But this morning, I pulled the poncho out of the laundry basket and held it in front of me taking a good long look. I pulled it close to me and felt the softness of the yarn, and then I put it on over my pajamas and couldn't help but thinking that this is the closest I'll get to a hug from my mom, and now I wish she'd made me a hundred of these stupid ponchoes, so I could wear one every day. But isn't that the way with gestures of love? We make our attempts to show love, but it doesn't always fit what we're looking for or what we want, or we think we don't need it, so we minimize, we reject, we ignore. But when that love is gone we strive to grasp any memory of whatever attempt was made, no matter how clumsy or how ill-fitting.
I wish I could say that this moment with a poncho in my bedroom would change my life and make me more accepting of the loving gestures that people make toward me or make me more intentional and concentrated in my loving gestures toward others, and it's possible. But perhaps this pain and these tears are as much a part of truly experiencing and receiving love, because the love that I didn't understand or receive was still given. Even if we reject love that is given, that love doesn't disappear into thin air, does it? Maybe it floats around and follows us until we receive it and accept it and then it gloms onto us and doesn't let go. And maybe rather than working on being more loving, it would be more beneficial to work on receiving love, because it seems that the very nature of receiving love doesn't suck it out of the universe and create a vaccuum. Instead, love is more transformational, isn't it? It changes us. It multiplies in us. Receiving love makes us more loving.
So if you ever see me in public wearing a multi-colored handmade poncho long after they're out of fashion, you'll know that I'm walking around draped in my mother's love.
As I'm emptying my laundry basket this morning, which I used like a suitcase, I come across a poncho that my mom crocheted for me. The poncho craze was always a little puzzling to me, since my mom wore a poncho when she brought my brother and me home from the hospital in a blanket made from matching yellow yarn. Am I really old enough that a fad that was popular at the time of my birth has been retro-ized? When the poncho came back, my mom offered to make me one, and so I picked out a yarn and she made it. I didn't really like it that much, because the pattern she used had this weird collar on it that looked, to put it nicely, dorky.
But this morning, I pulled the poncho out of the laundry basket and held it in front of me taking a good long look. I pulled it close to me and felt the softness of the yarn, and then I put it on over my pajamas and couldn't help but thinking that this is the closest I'll get to a hug from my mom, and now I wish she'd made me a hundred of these stupid ponchoes, so I could wear one every day. But isn't that the way with gestures of love? We make our attempts to show love, but it doesn't always fit what we're looking for or what we want, or we think we don't need it, so we minimize, we reject, we ignore. But when that love is gone we strive to grasp any memory of whatever attempt was made, no matter how clumsy or how ill-fitting.
I wish I could say that this moment with a poncho in my bedroom would change my life and make me more accepting of the loving gestures that people make toward me or make me more intentional and concentrated in my loving gestures toward others, and it's possible. But perhaps this pain and these tears are as much a part of truly experiencing and receiving love, because the love that I didn't understand or receive was still given. Even if we reject love that is given, that love doesn't disappear into thin air, does it? Maybe it floats around and follows us until we receive it and accept it and then it gloms onto us and doesn't let go. And maybe rather than working on being more loving, it would be more beneficial to work on receiving love, because it seems that the very nature of receiving love doesn't suck it out of the universe and create a vaccuum. Instead, love is more transformational, isn't it? It changes us. It multiplies in us. Receiving love makes us more loving.
So if you ever see me in public wearing a multi-colored handmade poncho long after they're out of fashion, you'll know that I'm walking around draped in my mother's love.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
There and back again
My current outgoing voicemail message says: "Just like Bilbo Baggins I've been there and back again, so many times, in fact, that I don't know where 'there' or 'back' is. At any rate, I'm back in Los Angeles."
I stopped in Denver and stayed with a friend from high school, after a more-delightful-than-words lunch in Lawrence, Kansas. After staying up late, we slept in and I got a late start and ended up in Hollbrook, Arizona. I'm so glad that I took a different route this time. Southern Colorado and northern New Mexico are spectacularly beautiful. I was crying as the sun descended through clouds and hid behind mountains, setting the sky ablaze. It was just that pretty. Day 3 was spent getting from Hollbrook to Phoenix, AZ, where I got to see my grandma and great uncle and great aunt. Then yesterday, I arrived in Los Angeles, right as rush hour was getting underway.
I'm tired. I don't know whether I want to be here. The car is half unpacked. But I'm so glad I didn't have to run lickety split across the country, like every other drive I've made. I don't know what to expect out of the next few days, weeks, and months. But here I am, back in the shire....
I stopped in Denver and stayed with a friend from high school, after a more-delightful-than-words lunch in Lawrence, Kansas. After staying up late, we slept in and I got a late start and ended up in Hollbrook, Arizona. I'm so glad that I took a different route this time. Southern Colorado and northern New Mexico are spectacularly beautiful. I was crying as the sun descended through clouds and hid behind mountains, setting the sky ablaze. It was just that pretty. Day 3 was spent getting from Hollbrook to Phoenix, AZ, where I got to see my grandma and great uncle and great aunt. Then yesterday, I arrived in Los Angeles, right as rush hour was getting underway.
I'm tired. I don't know whether I want to be here. The car is half unpacked. But I'm so glad I didn't have to run lickety split across the country, like every other drive I've made. I don't know what to expect out of the next few days, weeks, and months. But here I am, back in the shire....
Monday, January 7, 2008
The Return
Tomorrow I start driving back to LA. It was a good Christmas and New Year's. It's been busy, hence the MIA blogging. There were definitely some hard times ripe with Mom's absence. But some beautiful times with friends and family, too. It is pretty amazing how the beauty can overshadow the pain in those moments, though.
I've gotten used to being here, and I don't know that I'm ready to go back, which I didn't think would be possible. Do I really want to be in St. Louis more than I want to be in Los Angeles? Or is it that I want to be retired and be on permanent vacation, like I have been for the past 3 weeks, regardless of the location? I've watched a lot of cable, played a lot of solitaire, seen a lot of friends. My mind has been ripe with insights too numerous to share when there is laundry to do, a car to pack, and a route to plan.
More to come....
I've gotten used to being here, and I don't know that I'm ready to go back, which I didn't think would be possible. Do I really want to be in St. Louis more than I want to be in Los Angeles? Or is it that I want to be retired and be on permanent vacation, like I have been for the past 3 weeks, regardless of the location? I've watched a lot of cable, played a lot of solitaire, seen a lot of friends. My mind has been ripe with insights too numerous to share when there is laundry to do, a car to pack, and a route to plan.
More to come....
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